


Come Back to You

by lemoncakelady



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Mentions of Dismemberment, PTSD, Past Sexual Abuse, Physical Abuse, Recovery, Substance Abuse, Therapy, identity dysphoria, mostly post-Thramsay, only some violence- it's not extreme i promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-01 05:54:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13991874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemoncakelady/pseuds/lemoncakelady
Summary: It's been two years since Robb's boyfriend, Theon Greyjoy, left to visit the family he hadn't seen in over a decade. Two years since Theon effectively disappeared, leaving Robb with little more than a broken heart and a jar of seashells.





	1. Seashells

The bed springs groaned as he rose. It was a practiced habit, a soothing monotony. A ritual, almost, though Robb didn’t like to think of it that way.

He clicked on his beside lamp, its warm glow less affronting than the overhead lights at this time of night. Then he drifted to the closet, feet padding their four soft steps across the wooden floor. There, he knelt, and slid the box out from its spot against the wall, the very same cardboard box he’d received in the mail exactly two years before. Gingerly, he opened it and pulled the glass jar from the tufts of packing material that swathed it. He turned it in his hands, taking comfort in its familiar weight.

The jar rattled softly when he set it down, the seashells inside sliding against each other. He twisted off the cap and made his choice; he only allowed himself to take out one shell each night, as if this small measure of restraint meant he had any control over himself, meant that he had healed at all. He used to take them all out, one by one, and lay them out on the floor. Knowing that Theon had walked along the beach, stooped down, and picked each one from the sand, had held them in his hands, washed them in the waves, and thought to send them to Robb, was almost too much to bear. Seeing them all splayed out next to each other stirred something within him that made his very bones ache.

Robb knew each one by heart— their size, their surface, their markings. There was the auburn, spired one, faded to orange at the edges; the big silver-white one with a strangely rough surface and faint purplish stripes; the red-splotched crab shell, surprisingly delicate; the dirty looking oblong disk whose underside was glossy and smooth, flashing rainbows when cast in the light. Tonight, he chose a small shell that sat nicely in his palm. It was cream-colored and mottled brown, with blue-green bands that spiraled across it, almost the impossible color of Theon’s eyes. Robb twisted it in his fingers, admiring the colored bands that limned its surface, skimming its ridges with his thumb.

“Send me seashells,” he’d cried as he watched Theon file into the line for security, his suitcase dangling, heavy, from his hand. “I’ve never seen the ocean!”

And the way Theon had grinned at him over his shoulder— Robb would never forget that.

It could’ve been minutes, hours even, before Robb put the shell back, stuffed the jar back into its box, and shut it away in the closet.

Still in the box, he knew, was the note Theon had sent with it, hidden beneath sheets of bubble wrap. It would be too painful to pull it out again, to see those words written in Theon’s slanted hand and try to imagine what could’ve possibly happened to him after sending it that made him not want to see Robb anymore. Besides, Robb had read it enough times to know what it said. He could still picture each word written in Theon’s light scrawl.

_Robb,_

_I can’t even begin to describe how nice it is to be on the water again; I swear I could smell the sea from the airport. The first thing I did when I got here was go down to the beach and find these out for you. I picked a quiet spot I had all to myself and went for a swim— beats the pool at the gym any day! I don’t know what going home will be like, but it was worth it to come, even for this. Hope this is good enough!_

_Love,_

_T_

Theon had been sent to live with the Stark family when he was eight years old, of age with Robb and Robb’s cousin, Jon, who had lived with the Starks his whole life. Theon’s mother had died when he was young, and his father, a prominent shipwright on the Iron Islands, had been imprisoned for fraud. Theon had grown up with Robb, and the two had been close as brothers, though their relationship was far more than fraternal. They’d had feelings for each other for too long to recount but hadn’t started dating until college, where Theon studied business, in hopes of someday reviving his father’s failed company, and Robb had double-majored in Math and Economics. Eventually, he would inherit his family’s winter gear business, but he landed a job straight after graduation as an actuary for a major company in the city and made good money for his age. He liked the strategy component of his work, calculating risks to help devise insurance plans and taking tests to increase his rank and salary— he’d passed them all on his first try, which was no small feat, according to his boss. For their last two years of undergrad, Robb, Jon, and Theon had shared an apartment close to campus, the same apartment in which Robb and Jon still lived.

And then, shortly after the three of them had graduated together, Theon’s father was released from prison. For fourteen years, Theon hadn’t seen his family— or what remained of it, his mother having died of cancer and his two older brothers having been killed in the midst of a drug scandal, in which they’d exploited company money. Only his father and older sister Asha remained, and Theon hadn’t spoken to them or visited home since he had been sent to the Starks, a shy and scarred child of eight years. He’d grown into a rebellious youth, getting into more trouble than any of the Stark children— staying out too late, talking back to teachers, smoking pot (and worse, Robb suspected), behind the school. But he’d always come back. Robb had been his anchor, had supported him through all of it, had helped him get through. And Theon had done the same for him, when Robb had been stressed and overextended and when he came out to his parents.

Robb had known that Theon had issues with his family, that his brothers had beat him, that his father had been cold. But Robb had also known how much Theon had missed home, how out of place he felt with the Starks. For all of the fourteen years he’d been away, Theon had dreamed of going home, of seeing the sea, of restoring his family name to something it had once been: great.

From the moment they found out about Balon Greyjoy’s release from incarceration, Robb had supported Theon’s decision to visit home.

“For as long as you need to,” Robb had told him. “I’ll be right here.”

The Starks’ relationship with the Greyjoys was tenuous at best— with Robb father’s part in Balon Greyjoy’s conviction— and this was a journey they both had known Theon had to make alone. Robb had encouraged him to go, had driven him to the airport, had kissed him goodbye without a single fear that he wouldn’t come back.

Robb rose to his feet, strode to the kitchen, and swung open the refrigerator door. Bathed in its harsh light and sudden chill, he blinked, shrinking back. It wasn’t hunger that made him feel so empty, he decided.

He poured himself a drink and pulled a chair up to the kitchen counter.

“What’re you doing up?” Jon said as he padded into the kitchen, his voice soft, edged with concern.

Robb shrugged.

“Just thinking,” he said. He didn’t have to tell Jon what about.

“Don’t,” said Jon, smiling sadly. He pulled a seat up beside Robb. “Pour me one of those.”

Robb didn’t know what he’d do without Jon. Jon had put up with so much, from watching his two closest friends, who were practically his brothers, fall in love, to living with them for years. Robb had always gone out of his way to prevent Jon from feeling like the third wheel. And Jon had always been there for Robb when he needed him, had sat up with him on his worst nights, nights like these, to talk or to cry or to just sit quietly together.

“Fuck Theon,” Jon said, raising his glass and draining it in one gulp.

 _Would that I could,_ Robb thought, but he knew he’d best keep that sentiment to himself. Jon scolded him for saying things like that. Jon was mad at Theon for leaving Robb so abruptly and without explanation, but Robb couldn’t find it in his heart to be angry. Mostly, he’d been confused.

Before Theon had left for Pyke, they were fine; their relationship seemed to be at its best, with no end in sight. But it was only a few days into his trip when Theon had started to fall out of touch. His text messages became shorter, and he never called. Then, he’d stopped responding to Robb altogether. After about a week of Robb trying, frantically, to reach him, for fear that something horrible had happened to him, Theon asked for space. Robb had been conflicted, wanting to do what was best for Theon and give him the time and space he needed to figure things out with his family, but also wanting to make sure that he was okay. He pleaded with Theon to speak with him on the phone at least, but Theon had refused. Suddenly, all his social media accounts began to disappear. Robb had been hurt by this sudden, incomprehensible distance between them, but more than that, he was scared for Theon. He’d tried contacting Theon’s family to make sure that he was alright, but they wouldn’t speak to him either. For the first few months after Theon had left, Robb would often try to text him, letting him know that he could call anytime, that he was here to help him, but the only responses he ever got were “don’t talk to me anymore” and “fuck off.”

On the first anniversary of Theon’s departure, Robb was stumbling home from what had been their favorite bar when he called Theon for the final time, leaving him a drunk, harrowed voicemail begging him to tell him if he was safe.

“Baby, please, just let me know if you’re alright,” he’d sobbed into the receiver. “You don’t have to talk to me, you don’t have to explain anything. I just wanna hear your voice. I just wanna know if you’re okay. I’ll never call again, I promise.”

Theon had never responded, but Robb kept his word.

Jon had picked him up that night, walking him home from the park bench he’d been sitting on, hunched against the rain and hugging his kneels to his chest, too drunk and too broken to walk the last four blocks to their apartment alone.

Tonight, though, Jon drank with him. With two new glasses of scotch, they migrated to the living room, turning on the TV to drown out the silence that filled their apartment that night, and had filled their apartment for two years.

“Are you gonna call Tom again?” Jon asked, crossing his feet on the coffee table.

“Don’t think so.” Robb took a sip of his drink. “Didn’t work out.”

“They never do, do they?” Jon smiled, but there was accusation in his eyes.

Jon had encouraged Robb to start dating again, and he’d given it his best shot. Well, maybe not his _best_ shot. Robb Stark had always been good at seeing the best in people, but what he’d discovered recently was that he also had a special talent for finding a fatal flaw in whomever he was dating, some reason for ending things before they progressed too far. Jon knew this, and chided him for it.

“What was wrong with him this time?” Jon asked. “Was it because his name begins with a “T”?”

Robb rolled his eyes, but if he were honest with himself, that _had_ been a factor.

“Look, all I’m saying is, if you push everyone away, there’s no way in seven hells you’re ever going to find love again, as desirable as you are,” Jon said, shaking Robb roughly by the shoulder, making his head bob and winning a smile from him.

“But what if I don’t want to,” Robb said, the smile falling from his face. At 24, Robb had all the time in the world to find love again, but what he and Theon had— that was something you were lucky to find in a lifetime.  “Find love again, I mean.”

“Robb,” Jon sighed. “I know you. You’re the most social, kind, caring person I know. And you’re miserable.”

“Am not!” Robb protested.

“Robb, I found you drinking scotch by yourself at two in the morning on a Thursday,” said Jon.

“Friday, technically,” Robb corrected.

“Friday,” Jon sighed. “Whatever. And what were you doing before I saw you? Looking at those damn shells, I’ll bet.”

Robb felt his face flush and knew there was no use in lying.

“We should throw those out,” said Jon. “Chuck them out the window and watch them shatter on the street.”

“No!” Robb cried, more defensively than he’d planned.

“The thing you’ve been missing this whole time has been closure,” said Jon. “Honestly, I think getting rid of that jar could give you some.”

“Breaking some shells will suddenly make me get over being abandoned by my boyfriend of four years, who was practically a brother and best friend to me for over half my like?” Robb asked flatly.

“No, not completely,” Jon admitted. “But it might help.”

“Please, Jon,” said Robb. “It’s the last piece of him I have.”

Jon held his gaze for a few moments before relenting.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll let it go.”

As they finished their drinks, Jon tried to steer him into mindless conversation— sports talk, work, stuff that was supposed to cheer him up and distract him— yet Robb found that his thoughts kept drifting away, and the scotch did little to calm him.

He hadn’t told Jon about the encounter he’d had in the airport with Asha Greyjoy the past weekend when he’d been out at a conference down south for work. He knew Jon would only rebuke him for approaching Asha when he’d recognized her.

“Asha,” Robb had said when he strode up to her where she sat at the gate next to his. “Asha Greyjoy?”

Her eyes flicked up at him, the only part of her that had moved.

“Who are you?” she said.

“Robb Stark.” He extended his hand, and Asha regarded it coolly.

“What do you what?” she asked, voice flat.

“I was wondering, um…this is weird, but have you been keeping in touch with Theon?” he asked, trying to wrestle his voice into nonchalance. “It’s just…when he went back home he sort of disappeared on me. I haven’t really heard from him, and I was just worried.” He cleared his throat and felt his voice waver when he next spoke. “Do you know where he is?”

“Figured he was with you and his other family,” she spat the last two words like an insult.

“You mean you haven’t seen him?” Robb asked, feeling panic rise, hot, in his chest. “Haven't heard from him at all?”

He saw something flash in Asha Greyjoy’s eyes, then— fear, he thought, but in an instant, it passed, and her face hardened.

“My brother is an adult,” she said. “He can take care of himself.”

“I know,” said Robb. “And I don’t want to be a bother, I really don’t, I’m just worried about him.”

“Bugger off,” Asha said, and several of her friends drew closer to her.

“Fine.” Robb put his hands in the air and stepped back. “Just…help him if you can.”

That brief interaction had shaken Robb to his core, and he knew that if he told Jon about it, Jon would just tell him to shake it off. But he couldn’t. The only thing that had kept Robb sane these past two years was the hope that Theon was at least with his family, having decided that he couldn’t be with Robb and stay true to them. Robb could live with that. What he couldn’t live with was the knowledge that neither her nor Theon’s family had any clue where he was, that he could be alone somewhere— Theon, who was prone to self-isolation, who had a history of substance abuse, who hated asking for help.

Robb threw back his drink, savoring the burn in his throat but ruing that it wouldn’t numb him. It never did.

***

Later that night when Robb got back from work, Jon was already home, stretched out across the living room couch and scrolling through his phone. Robb slung his bag on the coat rack and plodded to the couch, lifting Jon’s legs and scooting under them to make a spot for himself.

“Long day?” Jon asked, eyes still glued to his phone.

“You bet,” said Robb. “Whatcha reading?”

“Insta,” said Jon.

He made no objection when Robb seized the TV remote from his side and proceeded to flick lazily through the channels. Suddenly, Jon stiffened, shooting upright.

“Gods,” he blurted, staring wide-eyed at his phone, “is that— ?”

Jon cut himself off, and Robb watched his expression change from that of genuine bewilderment to measured disinterest.

“What is it?” Robb said, his heart beginning to race.

“Nothing. Never mind,” Jon said, too quickly. “You wouldn’t care.”  

He tried to stuff his phone into his pocket, but Robb was too quick for him. He leapt atop Jon, pinned him to the couch, and wrestled his phone from him.

“Robb,” Jon said feebly as Robb slid to the floor and scrolled through his Instagram feed.

Robb’s heart stopped when he found it. At first, the picture seemed to be an ordinary selfie of Jon’s friends Grenn and Pyp at a low-lit bar, but at the table behind them sat Theon, shoulders hunched and eyes cast downward.

Even in the background of the dim picture, Theon looked appallingly thin. His cheekbones, although normally— and, to Robb’s taste, wonderfully— prominent, seemed to push through his skin, and his sweatshirt hung off him. There was something horrible and sunken about his eyes, and the way his mouth was drawn in a thin line.

The picture blurred as Robb’s eyes filled with tears.

“Robb?” Jon asked tentatively.

Robb tried to say something, but the words clogged in his throat. His blood rushed and his stomach churned and his eyes burned.

“He looks…” Robb managed, before trailing off and looking helplessly up at Jon.

“Well, he’s alive,” Jon offered.

“ _Jon_ ,” said Robb. He shifted his gaze back to the picture. Skinner’s Lounge, it said in the caption. “I have to go. I have to help him.”

“No,” said Jon, yanking his phone from Robb. “You don’t. What do you think you can do for him? He doesn’t want your help. He’s made that plain and clear.”

“He never said that to me,” Robb said, feeling his throat tighten. “Not in person, anyway.”

“What, so you’re going to go to some shitty bar on the edge of town and hope he’s there?” Jon asked. “And if he is, you’ll just waltz right up to him and whisk him away? You expect _that_ to go well?”

“Jon, you saw him,” said Robb. “He’s not okay.”

“And you’re gonna fix him?” said Jon, eyes derisive.

“I have to try,” Robb said, gathering his things. “I have to try to help him.” He slipped into his coat. “Are you coming with me?”

“No,” said Jon, his fingers curling and uncurling the way they did when he got upset. “I will not support this quasi-stalking, obsessive behavior. You’ve got to let this go.”

“You lived with him for a decade and a half!” Robb cried. “Do you not care about him at all?”

“I did, once,” said Jon. “Strange as it is. But he was an asshole to me, Robb, and an even bigger one to you. I don’t care what happened to him at Pyke— you deserved _something_. Some sort of goodbye. It was shit, what he did do you. He made his choice. And I’ve made mine.”

“Fine,” said Robb, wrenching the door open. “I’ll go by myself.”

His heart seemed to throb against his sternum the whole ride over, filling his ears with a ceaseless pounding. He was overcome with excitement, dread, determination. But when he got to Skinner’s Lounge, a dank and dingy bar almost a whole subway line away from his apartment, Robb could find no trace of Theon.

Too stunned from the day’s events and too upset to retreat back home and admit his defeat to Jon, Robb sat alone at the bar, sipping his screwdriver in silence.

He found himself staring at the seat where Theon had been in the picture, now empty, askew. He wondered if it was still warm, if it smelled like him.

 _Keep me, curse me, kill me,_ Robb thought, his empty glass clattering against the counter. _Just come back to me._

 

 


	2. Shattered Glass

He nursed the drink that Ramsay had bought him, the whiskey burning his throat, filling his nostrils with fire. Once, wine had been his drink of choice, but now Theon Greyjoy needed stronger stuff.

It was harder to remember his name in this city.

“Reek,” he breathed to himself, to be sure that he did. Ramsay would be upset with him if he forgot. He didn’t want to think about that. “Reek, Reek, Reek, Reek.”

The shape of his lips felt strange when he said it.

 _It’s all this damn city,_ he thought bitterly, _making me forget_. Another thought crept, unbidden, through his head, as fleeting as a passing shadow— _Making me remember._

He shivered.

He often wondered if coming back to the north was Ramsay’s way of tormenting him, of dangling before him the life he used to have, the one he was supposed to forget. Sometimes he wondered whether it was a test to make sure that he knew who he was, that he knew his place. He was Reek. Reek belonged to Ramsay— in the riverlands, in the north, everywhere.

He had known Ramsay was from the north all along— since the moment he’d met him in the shoddy bar near Seagard where Theon Greyjoy had gone to drink away his sorrows after leaving Pyke for the last time. He had heard it in Ramsay’s accent, standing next to him at the bar, and maybe that’s why Theon had picked him to approach, or maybe it had been his wild eyes, his dangerous smile. Theon Greyjoy had needed a fix, and Ramsay seemed to be the sort of person who might have what he was looking for. That’s all he had thought it would be, at first— something slipped beneath the counter, some crumpled bills passed between quick fingers.

“What’s this?” Theon had asked when Ramsay pushed the pill into his palm after they’d stepped out into the dank alley next to the bar.

“Does it matter?” Ramsay had asked.

 _What the hell,_ Theon had thought, throwing his head back and swallowing it dry. Small as it was, the pill had left a bitter, chalky taste in his mouth and hit his stomach like acid.

“I’ll tell you what,” Ramsay had said, donning that wicked smile of his. “Let’s play a game. And for this game we need new names.”

“What sort of names?” Theon had asked, already reeling from the sudden lightness in his head, the rushing of his blood.

“Names we can call each other, so we don’t ever have to use our real ones,” Ramsay had explained.

 _You are no Greyjoy. You are no son of mine_ , Theon’s father had told him earlier that morning, before he’d left Pyke for the final time. Theon had tried, for a few miserable days, to prove himself to his family, to withstand the mockery of his sister and his father’s dismissals of him as “Ned Stark’s daughter,” and a “northern faggot.” Somehow, he had found out about Robb. And somehow, that had made Theon ashamed, something he’d never been of his and Robb’s relationship until that day. He had come perilously close to staying to try to show his father that he was still Ironborn— but he was too weak. He had always been too weak.

And so Theon Greyjoy had found himself on the mainland, exiled once more from his home and not ready to go back north and admit his defeat to Robb. Robb with his stupidly perfect life, his loving family, his inheritance. It had become clear that Theon would inherit nothing, that he had no family. Sick with envy and hardened by sorrow, Theon had decided to take a few days to sort himself out before going back.

All his life, the Greyjoy name had been the only thing he had, the thing that had kept him going. It had been his dream, his destiny. After that had shattered, Theon found himself wondering if Robb would even want him, want the nothing he had become. Either way, he didn’t want Robb’s pity. He wanted to get high. Robb wouldn’t like that. Robb had never known how bad it had goten, in school; Theon had made sure of that. He hadn’t used since his third year of undergrad, but that night, the pull was stronger than it had ever been. He needed to forget himself, the good, the bad— everything, even for one night. 

“I like the sound of that,” Theon had said. His smile had come as naturally as breathing; he’d perfected it long before.

Ramsay had smiled too, a slow, wormy smile that curled up his pale cheek.

“You can be Reek,” he had said.

“Reek?” Theon had asked, nose wrinkling. “Why Reek?”

“You smell briny. Like fish,” Ramsay had said, leaning in. Maybe it had been whatever Theon was on, but Ramsay’s eyes had seemed wide and bright and buggy, and his teeth pointed like razors. “I hate fish.”

Theon had laughed at that.

“I’m Ramsay.” Ramsay had thrust out his hand then. It felt clammy in Theon’s own. “Ramsay Bolton.”

For one wild moment, Theon had tasted power on his tongue. _Ramsay Bolton_. He had hardly been able to believe his luck. He’d known that Roose Bolton, who worked for Robb’s father, had a bastard son, Ramsay Snow, but he’d known precious little about him. Standing there in the darkness of the alley, cut only by the halogenic glare of the neon lights from the bar window, Theon had thought he knew exactly who Ramsay was. A bastard. An undesirable like him. Someone who wanted to be more than he was, someone who needed to start over. Theon Greyjoy had been a fool to think that he could beat Ramsay at his own game.

Ramsay always won, Reek knew.

He set his empty glass on the counter and waited for the bartender to refill it. Ramsay had been taking him to Skinner’s Lounge almost every night since they moved back to the north two weeks before, and he seemed to know everyone who worked there. Reek didn’t know whether that should make him feel safer or more nervous.

Skinner’s was on the complete opposite side of the city from where Theon Greyjoy used to live, but Reek often found himself worrying that he’d run into someone he knew. He told himself that no one would recognize him, that Reek didn’t know anyone in this city, but it did little to quell his fears.

He wondered whether Robb and Jon were still in the city, if they still lived in their old two-bedroom apartment just off campus, nine floors over their favorite little café with its blue stools and bay windows. It was a bad thing to wonder, he knew. Robb and Jon meant nothing to Reek. Ramsay would know if he had been thinking about them. Ramsay knew everything. Sometimes Reek swore that Ramsay could see right through his skin, all the way down to his insides.

He glanced quickly around the bar for Ramsay, finding no sign of him. He could’ve gone to the bathroom or into the alley with some of his friends. Reek hated not knowing where Ramsay was.

Alone, Reek tried to find thoughts to distract himself. Theon Greyjoy was gone; Reek mustn’t think like Theon Greyjoy. He didn’t want to look around at the people in the bar; he hated the harshness of their voices, the revulsion in their eyes when they looked at him. He stared at the phone that sat, forgotten, on the chair next to his, but it made him think of the cell phone he used to own and the night Ramsay had made him listen to the last voicemail Robb had left him. He had cried and cried and cried, and Ramsay had punished him for it.

“Reek, don’t tell me you still care about Robb Stark,” he had said, breathing his hot, pungent breath right into Reek’s face. “I thought you had learned.”

Reek tore his eyes from the phone and tried studying the notches in the wood of the bar counter instead, but it only made him think of the wooden cross that Ramsay liked to strap him to when he cut him.

Reek sipped at his drink and wished there was something in his world that didn’t hurt.

“Theon?”

He knew the voice speaking to him, had known it for lifetimes, but when Theon wheeled in his seat to see Robb Stark right next to him, he began to shake all over, knocking his glass to the floor.

The bartender cried out when he heard the breaking glass, and people all around them turned in their seats, but Robb seemed undeterred, continuing on with some mix of “I’m sorry” and “I didn’t mean to bother you” and “are you alright?” that Theon wasn’t able to pick apart.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Theon managed to say, his heart thrumming away inside his chest. He hid his hands in his sweatshirt, wishing he could hide all of himself. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Robb’s eyes.

“Look, Theon, I understand if you don’t want to talk to me, but…”

Theon didn’t let himself look over, but he could tell that Robb was chewing at his lower lip from the way he sounded, the sudden thickness in his voice. Theon felt like he could bust wide open.

“Let me help you,” Robb said.

Theon could have died, right then and there, as he looked up helplessly at those big blue eyes. Except for the bags under them and the lines of worry on his face, Robb looked every bit as young and beautiful as Theon had left him years ago. Robb who should be mad at him, Robb who had every right to hate him, Robb who had always cared about him more than he ever deserved. Robb whom he had hurt.

And if Ramsay saw…Theon could hardly breathe. _It’s not my fault it’s not my fault it’s not my fault_ , he thought. It was all too much— the shock of Robb’s voice, the shame, the desire to reach out and touch his face, the terror of Ramsay finding out, of what he would do to him. Stricken with guilt and paralyzed with fear, Theon rocked himself in his chair, trying to make himself as small as possible.

He went cold when Ramsay drew up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Is this man bothering you, Reek?” Ramsay asked, as if he hadn’t recognized Robb Stark on sight. “Did he frighten you?”

Petrified, Theon knew there was no good answer. Luckily, Robb spoke before he had the chance to stammer out a response.

“Theon, what the fuck did he just call you?” There was anger in Robb’s voice and fear in his eyes when Theon looked up at them.

“Not Theon,” he said, gaze swiveling between Ramsay and Robb, willing them to understand, willing Robb to leave while he could and Ramsay to forgive him, to see that he hadn’t asked for this. “Reek!”

But Ramsay wasn’t looking down at him. As he watched Ramsay’s eyes crawl over Robb in voiceless appetite, watched the half-smile creep up his cheek, Theon realized there was something he feared more than the kiss of Ramsay’s flaying knife against his own skin.

“Theon,” Robb said. It almost sounded like a question.

“No! Not Theon!” he cried, whether for Robb or for Ramsay or for himself, he didn’t know. “Reek! Reek!”

“Theon, what the fuck!” said Robb, voice cracking.

More people were beginning to stare at them now. That was bad, Theon knew. Ramsay’s hands traveled up and down his arms, squeezing them lightly.

“Shh, Reek, it’s alright,” he cooed.

“Leave him alone!” Robb yelled, lunging forward. A pair of bouncers seized him roughly by the arms, and Ramsay gave them a curt nod.

 _Don’t hurt him,_ Theon wanted to scream, but his voice stuck in his throat. It was a well-conditioned reflex, preventing himself from saying words that would surely condemn him. They wouldn’t do anything serious, he told himself, not to Robb Stark. It was a shifty bar, but they didn’t want any outright trouble on their hands. Sure, people shot up in the bathrooms and money was passed around beneath tables, but maiming or murder would certainly be frowned upon, especially that of a member of a prominent family in the city. Besides, there was nothing he could do.

He heard the sounds of struggle as the bouncers wrenched Robb from the bar— the scuffling of feet toward the door, chairs creaking against the wooden floor as people turned in them, Robb’s shouts of “get off me” and “I didn’t do anything” and “Theon! _Theon!_ ”

Reek trained his gaze downward, fixing upon the shards of shattered glass that littered the floor.

***

He took comfort in the low hum of the grocery store refrigerator. He studied the rows of yogurt cups, all lined up in their bright packaging. He liked to pretend that he could choose any one he wanted. Maybe Ramsay would let him take one home if he was good.

 _No, not home,_ he thought. Theon Greyjoy didn’t have a home. He never had. The windowless apartment in which he lived with Ramsay certainly didn’t count.

Reek scolded himself, shrinking against his own thoughts. Ever since he’d seen Robb Stark in Skinner’s Lounge, he couldn’t stop thinking about him, and insolent notions snaked through his mind like weeds. There was a problem with weeds, he knew. It was no simple matter of snipping them away— weeds have roots.

After dreaming of Robb the night after he’d seen him at Skinner’s, Reek hadn’t slept a wink for two days in a row, for fear that he’d whisper Robb’s name in his sleep and Ramsay would hear him. Reek was used to losing sleep, but he knew he couldn’t keep it up for much longer.

What he needed was to distract himself with something tactile, an action he could focus on instead of his rebel head, his defiant mind that terrified him. He opened the refrigerator door, feeling the soft lip around its rim break its suction from the cool metal beneath it. He closed it, paused, then opened it again, falling into a rhythm. Open. Close. Open. Close.

The way the cool air wafted against his face every time he opened the door took him back to winters long before, back to Robb with his flushed cheeks and big warm sweaters and Jon with his impeccable aim, hitting Theon square on the back with snowballs when he wasn’t looking and shoving ice down his shirt from behind. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen snow; it wasn’t something Theon Greyjoy had ever thought he’d find himself missing.

“Theon.”

Jolting backward, he lost his grip on the refrigerator handle. At first, he thought he was imagining Robb’s voice, but when the door swung back into place and Theon mustered the courage to turn his head, he saw Robb standing right next to him in the blinding white of the grocery aisle, eyes brighter than any yogurt label, too real and too dazzling to be any sort of apparition.

Theon stiffened. Everything inside him seemed to freeze; he couldn’t cry out for Ramsay, even if he wanted to.

Robb stuffed his hands in his pockets and bowed his head, rocking back on his heels.

“Look, I’m sorry for what happened the other night,” he said, voice low. “I know I upset you. I’m just…I’m worried about you, T.”

Maybe it was the warmth in Robb’s voice or the heat from his body, feet away from his own, that made Theon feel as though he had begun to thaw.

“I can’t talk to you,” he choked.

“You can,” said Robb, stepping closer to him.

Theon turned his head away, but he couldn’t force his legs to move.

“You can always talk to me,” Robb said gently. “No matter what, okay?”

“No,” said Theon. “ _He’s_ here. I can’t talk to you.”

“Stay with me, then,” said Robb. “Go with me. I won’t let him take you if you don’t want.”

“No!” Theon hissed. He’d been offered ways out before— traps, all of them. Ramsay’s games to test him and to punish him and to toy with him. He was no fool, now, to believe there was any way out. “You can’t trick me!”

“Theon, I’m not tricking you,” Robb said, his face scrunching up in what could’ve been frustration or anger or urgency. Theon cowered from him.

“I want to go with him!” he said, feeling tears leak from his eyes and snot from his nose, all of it rushing hot and wet down his face like something inside of him had burst. “I want to I want to I want to!”

When he saw the horror in Robb’s eyes, Theon stopped crying. He sniffed and wiped his nose on his sweatshirt. Robb Stark was no liar, he knew, and nor was he cruel. This couldn't be a trick, he decided, but still, if Ramsay found them talking, he would have to punish his Reek. Theon didn’t want to think about which part of him Ramsay might take this time. He began to tremble.

“Let me help you. Please. ” Robb said, edging closer. Before Theon could stop him, Robb took his hand into his own.

Theon was too stunned to snatch his hand away at first. Mortified, he watched Robb’s eyes widen and felt his whole body go rigid when he saw the sloppy stumps Ramsay had left Theon where he had cut off two of the fingers from his left hand, the remaining three thin and bloodless.

“Theon,” Robb said, eyes filling.

Theon couldn’t bear to look at him, casting his gaze to the floor and tucking both hands into the sleeves of his sweatshirt.

“Did he do this to you?” Robb demanded. Tears slid down his cheeks, but his voice shook with anger.

“You have to go,” Theon said. Ramsay could be back any minute. Panic writhed in his gut.

“I won’t leave you,” said Robb, his voice thick with emotion.

Robb didn’t understand who Ramsay was, and Theon prayed that he never would. Theon didn’t know if any gods had ever heard him, but if they would listen to him just this once, it would be enough. _He can cut away piece after piece of me if he wants,_ thought Theon, _but he can’t have Robb._

“You won’t win,” Theon said. “He’ll hurt you.”

“I don’t care,” said Robb.

He knew what he had to do then. Theon Greyjoy had never been good at games, but Reek had to learn. He’d had to learn what people wanted, for themselves and from him. When he knew and adapted to what Ramsay wanted, his pain was swifter, his suffering shorter. Those were the games he played.

“He’ll hurt _me_ ,” Theon said.

Something shifted in Robb’s pearly eyes then, and Theon knew he had struck a vein.

“I won’t let him,” said Robb.

“You can’t stop him,” said Theon. “He’ll hurt me. You have to go, or he’ll hurt me. You have to go _now._ ”

Robb shook his head.

“Come with me,” he pleaded.

“Please please, you have to leave,” said Theon. Begging had never worked with Ramsay; if anything, it only fueled him further. But Robb was different.

“Give me his name, then,” said Robb. “Or an address. Something, so I can help you.”

“You have to go now,” said Theon. “Please, Robb, please.”

The sound of his own name seemed to stir something within Robb. Theon realized that he couldn’t remember the last time he had said it aloud. He watched Robb’s eyes well with tears again before he turned away, disappearing around the corner of the aisle moments before Ramsay materialized at its other end. He was carrying a red basket, heaping with meat. The smell of it made Theon’s stomach churn.

“Reek, is something wrong?” Ramsay asked when he drew up beside him, still standing by the yogurt fridge. “You seem…nervous.”

 _When am I not_? thought Theon.

“The people…” Reek said, glancing sidelong at the few shoppers passing by. Some looked at him with pity, some with accusation in their eyes. What had he ever done to them? “They scare me.”

Lying to Ramsay was the worst thing Reek could do, he knew, yet he did it anyway. For one dreadful moment, it seemed as though Ramsay had seen through him, but then he just smiled at his Reek, snaked an arm around his waist, and led him from danger.

 


	3. Bile and Iron

Robb felt like he could beat his fists bloody on the side of the grocery store, but all it took was one strike for him to sink to the ground. He leaned his head back against the wall, watching shoppers spill out into the parking lot, the colors around him all bleeding into one another as hot tears welled in his eyes. Nobody stopped to help him or to ask if he was okay; Robb was in the hard part of town.

He hated himself for leaving Theon in the store. It had taken every ounce of willpower he’d had to walk away, but what else could he have done? Theon had begged him to leave and would’ve made a scene if he’d stayed. He didn’t want to put Theon in any more danger than he was already in, but leaving him with that monster of a man didn’t seem anything close to safe. The thought of him touching Theon made Robb’s stomach roil, the memory of him in the bar with his hands on Theon's shoulders still burning in Robb's mind.

The image of Theon’s hands wouldn’t leave him either— all bony, trembling, and sickly pale. They were hands Robb used to squeeze when they crossed streets together. Hands that used to cup his cheeks. Hands he used to warm on winter nights. And how crudely they were cut, where the fingers had been taken. Fingers he used to weave between his own. Fingers he used to kiss one by one. Fingers that used to slip inside him and make him shiver.

Robb lurched to his feet, clutching madly at his curls. He had to do something, and he knew he had to act quickly. He didn’t have time to sit outside the grocery store from which Theon and the man with him could appear at any moment. Robb hurried across the parking lot to his car, glancing frantically back over his shoulder to make sure he didn’t miss them leaving. His heart pounded against his sternum.

Robb shut himself in his car, gluing his gaze to the grocery store exit. There was only one set of doors; he couldn’t miss them.

He thought about calling the police, wondering if they would even help, and then he thought about calling Jon, who had apologized for dismissing the severity of Theon’s situation after Robb had filled him in about what had happened at Skinner’s Lounge three nights before. Though Jon had promised to help Robb find Theon in any way he could, Robb hadn’t told him that he’d driven across the city after work to shop for groceries, and Robb was too worried he’d miss Theon leaving if he called Jon now to fill him in. As shoddy as it was, Robb liked to spend time in the neighborhood near the bar where he’d spotted Theon— the bar he’d been permanently banned from— in hopes of catching Theon out somewhere, alone. It had become clear that that was unlikely to happen, with that dark-haired man always floating over Theon's shoulder like some ghoulish shadow. 

Robb felt powerless. He couldn’t get Theon to leave on his own, he couldn’t go back to Skinner’s Lounge, and he knew nothing about the man who had been with him. He let out a deep breath, tapping his leg furiously against the floor of his car.

He’d follow them, he decided. Maybe he could figure out where they lived or see if they split up. He didn’t know what his plan was after that, but he figured getting more information could only help until he came up with something better. He dug out a black hoodie from his backseat and threw it on, along with some sunglasses he’d stashed in the glove box. Then, he twisted his keys into the ignition and waited.

When he saw Theon and the man burst through the doors of the grocery store and into the evening light, Robb’s heart leapt into his throat. His eyes filled at the sight of Theon hobbling awkwardly across the parking lot, just behind his ever-present companion. Robb wondered what he had done to Theon to make him limp like that. His knuckles turned white as he tightened his grip on the wheel.

He watched them climb into a rusted red car and pull out from their spot, pulling out from his own a few moments later. Robb wondered if Theon would recognize his car behind them, if he would tell the man with him if he did, or if he would even look. Robb pulled his hood down further as he followed the red car out onto the bustling street.

Robb tried to keep as much distance as he could between his car and theirs without losing them completely. He had never followed anyone like this before; his head pounded, and his hands shook. After a few turns, Robb thought he knew where they were headed. His hunch was confirmed when they pulled off to park on the street in front of Skinner’s Lounge. He sped past them so as not to arouse suspicion, eyes flitting to the rear view mirror to watch them enter the bar. He parked in a lot of a few blocks down the road and slammed his fist against the wheel.

Robb idled in his car for a while, cradling his head in his hands. He thought again about calling Jon for backup but decided against it, too shaken from having seen Theon again to explain the situation. He had hardly slept since the evening he’d seen Theon at Skinner’s Lounge. The past few nights he’d been staying up with Jon as they’d tried to figure out a plan or tossing and turning for hours in his bed sheets. He’d even called his mother one night. She had no great love for Theon, especially after he'd cut Robb off, but she'd sounded concerned when Robb told her about his encounter with Theon at the bar and offered him her comfort. Robb thought about calling her again, but he knew he was too antsy and upset to carry out a coherent conversation. His mother could wait. Theon couldn’t. Robb worried about what else that man might do to Theon while they were out of sight. He could still picture the man’s wide, pale eyes, his thick lips, his strangely pointed smile. The very sight of him had made Robb uneasy. Robb wished he knew his name, wished he had any information about him whatsoever.

When he couldn’t take it any longer, Robb cast his sunglasses aside and stepped out of his car for some fresh air. He found a bench in front of the bar and sat on it; no one had banned him from the streets, and with his hood drawn up he had a good chance of going unnoticed altogether. He sat alone on the bench and watched as the sky reddened and the sun fell behind the buildings in the distance, glowing warmly against their dark edges.

Robb was bent forward, resting his elbows on his knees, when he heard a voice coming from the alleyway behind him that made his skin crawl.

“You should have told me sooner, Reek,” it said. “I saw him. I knew. I always know.”

“I know,” a second voice cried. “I know, and I’m sorry!”

Robb felt himself go rigid. _Theon._

“Get on your knees,” the first voice said.

“Please,” Theon sobbed. “I’m sorry I’m sorry.”

“Sorry isn’t good enough, Reek. Give me your hand.”

“PLEASE!” the sound of Theon’s sobs made Robb’s whole body quake. “Please please don’t hurt me!”

“I’ll tell you what,” the other man said. “I’ll let you keep the rest of your fingers if you serve me well.” The sounds of his belt clinking rang through the alley.

Robb flew at him, snarling.

The man hardly had time to flinch away before Robb’s fist met his face with all the force he could muster. The man staggered backward, slamming into the alley wall, but Robb kept coming at him. A rage like nothing he had ever known filled him, hot and fast and hard— he lost himself, striking the man in the face, in the gut, anywhere he could, again and again and again.

Robb never saw the flash of the blade before it sunk into his stomach. He hardly even felt it slip through his skin— once, twice, a third time, higher.

But more surprising than the bite of the knife was the strangled cry that came from somewhere behind its wielder. In a tangle of hair and skin and blood, Theon drove himself into the man holding the knife, and the two of them crashed to the ground.

 _I have to help him_ , Robb thought, swaying. He tried to move his legs, but they buckled beneath him. Gravity wrenched him downward. He clutched at his gut, blood rushing hot between his fingers.

“Theon,” he tried to say, struggling to stay on his knees. The word choked in his throat, and his mouth tasted of bile and iron. He was dimly aware of the sound of glass breaking, somewhere far away across the alley. His head felt light, his muscles tired. He toppled backward.

 _No,_ Robb thought, _I have to get up._ There was something he had to tell Theon, something important, but he couldn’t remember what it was. All he could do was lie there with his heavy limbs, his head of jelly, fingering his wounds with his slow, sticky hands.

Suddenly, Theon was crouched over him, nostrils flaring.

“Robb,” he breathed, eyes widening as he took in the sight of Robb’s wounds. “No, please, no!”

He flung aside the shattered half of a glass bottle and bent down, scooping up Robb’s head with a shaking hand and pressing against his stomach with the other, as if trying to keep all the blood from rushing out of him. Robb wormed his wet fingers over Theon’s, grasping at his cold hand. It was so nice to hold him again, to be held by him.

“Help!” Theon cried, his breath still labored, chest heaving with effort. “Someone, help!”

“Theon,” Robb said calmly, reaching for Theon’s face. His fingers left a red stain where they brushed Theon’s cheek before his arm fell, limp, to his side. Theon met his eyes.

“Robb, please,” he whispered. “Please stay. Stay stay stay. Please, Robb. I’m sorry. I got you.” He looked up, head swiveling frantically. “Help! Gods— _somebody_ — HELP!”

His eyes fluttered, flashing white, and he slumped forward across Robb’s chest.

 _Theon_ , Robb tried to say again, but his voice wouldn’t find him. He felt warm. The world around him blurred, and Robb wondered vaguely if he was dying. It didn’t matter; Theon was with him. In that moment, their chests pressing together with every rattling breath, he knew that nothing could tear them apart. 


	4. Games

Theon woke with one thing on his mind, one name on his lips.

“Robb,” he said, jolting upright in the bed.

The world around him was white, the faces ogling down at him unfamiliar. Wildly, he didn’t care.

“Robb,” he demanded. “Where is he?”

The faces pressed in closer. Theon shrunk away from them.

“Can you tell us your name?” one of the people hovering over him asked. Her eyes looked kind; Theon mistrusted them.

He scanned the faces above him, careful not to hold any of their gazes for too long. They were cool, calculating, impassive. He wondered what they wanted from him, if they wanted him to be Theon or Reek. He wondered why they were withholding information from him. He wondered if he gave them the right answer, if they would tell him about Robb, and if they did, if they would tell the truth. He felt hopeless, like he could curl in on himself and be crushed by the weight of his own feeble body.

“Please,” he said, beginning to shake. “Please, no games. I don’t want to play.”

Theon didn’t know why he even tried to beg; it had never worked before.

“Are you Theon Greyjoy?”

Theon went rigid.

“How did you hear that name?” he asked, voice quavering. “Who told you?”

His captors made no reply. One of them scribbled something on a clipboard.

“Reek,” he said. His voice seemed hollow for some reason. Dread sunk like a pit in his stomach— they wouldn’t believe him. “I’m Reek. _Reek_.”

“An informant has identified you as Theon Greyjoy,” a man with a paper mask over his mouth said, his thick eyebrows arching together. “Were they incorrect in doing so?”

“Please,” Theon said, his voice barely more than a whisper. Hot tears rushed to his eyes. “Please don’t make me say it.”

There was more scribbling on the clipboard, but nobody spoke to him.

“Robb Stark,” Theon said. His face was a wet mess now, and his words were thick. “What happened to Robb Stark?”

“Unfortunately, we are not at liberty to tell you due to confidentiality requirements,” one of the women said.

“Please,” Theon sobbed. “Please just tell me if he’s alive.”

A gloved hand reached in to grab his arm. Theon slammed back against the headboard.

“Don’t touch me, don’t touch me!” he cried. “Never touch me.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the owner of the hand said. “I’m just going to adjust your catheter and check your vitals.”

For the first time, Theon noticed that there was a network of tubes sticking out of him— from his hand, from his arm, from his nose. His heart began to hammer. Panicked, he reached to try to wrench them out of himself, but his captors seized him and pinned him back against the headboard. He screamed and writhed, thrashing side to side in the sheets, but they were too strong from him. Eventually, he succumbed to them, knowing his efforts were futile.

He seemed to be in some sort of hospital, and the people around him looked like doctors and nurses, with their stony faces and loose uniforms and latex gloves. But Theon knew to never trust appearances.

“What’s the last thing you remember before waking up here?” one of the nurses asked. “What transpired in the alley outside Skinner’s Lounge, to the best of your knowledge?”

Theon remembered holding Robb in his shaking, useless hands, feeling his ragged and labored breath as his chest heaved beneath his fingers. He remembered Robb’s glassy eyes, his waxen face. His blood had glistened, deep red, welling where Ramsay had driven the knife into him.

Theon pulled his knees to his chest, beginning to tremble again. How could he talk about it, when he couldn’t bear to think about it? If he didn’t speak the horrible truth aloud, it was easier to pretend that it had never happened. Robb Stark couldn’t be gone. Theon would die.

“Take as much time as you need,” the nurse said.

A terrible thought occurred to him then. What if Robb had survived and was being punished somewhere for attacking Ramsay? Theon went cold. _Ramsay_. Where was Ramsay? Theon hated not knowing. He had broken a bottle over Ramsay’s face— Ramsay would punish his Reek for that. It was beyond insolence. It was beyond anything he had ever done. Theon pulled his knees in tighter, trembling violently.

But he had to tell the truth. He had to tell them all that none of this was Robb’s fault. It didn’t matter what they did to him; he had to help Robb if he could.

“Ramsay was going to hurt me,” he said finally. “He was going to hurt me, and Robb only stepped in to stop him. He tried to save me.”

They waited for him to continue as the tears slid down his face and he sucked in a rattling breath, preparing himself for what was to come next.

“And then Ramsay stabbed him,” he said. “Over and over. He wasn’t going to stop. I had to stop him. He was going to kill Robb. I…I tackled him to the ground, but he was stronger than me. I found an empty bottle and hit him with it.” He looked up at their faces, trying to measure their expressions. “I didn’t mean to hurt him,” he said. “I didn’t mean to.”

But of course he had. Ramsay was hurting Robb. There was nothing Theon wouldn’t have done to stop him.  

“Was this man Ramsay Snow?” one of the nurses asked.

“You shouldn’t call him that,” Theon said, stiffening. “He hates that name. He’s a Bolton. Ramsay Bolton.”

The nurse nodded, seeming to understand.

“Has Ramsay hurt you before?” she asked.

Tentatively, Theon bobbed his head, too afraid to speak.

“Did he cut off your three missing fingers and four missing toes?” the man with the thick eyebrows asked bluntly.

Theon’s sob must have been answer enough, because the scratching on the clipboard continued, furious as ever.

Finally, they stopped bombarding him with questions. They must’ve gotten the information they needed or seen how exhausted he was. All of them gathered their things and cleared out through the swinging doors and into the hallway, save for one nurse who dragged her chair to a corner of the room and pulled out a book to read. Theon sensed that they were reluctant to leave him alone.

He scanned the room, searching for an escape. There was the set of doors the other doctors and nurses had left through, but he could hear people talking as they passed by in the hall. Someone would stop him if he tried to run. Besides, the nurse was sitting between him and the door. She was a small person and seemed docile, but everyone was stronger and quicker than him, with his reedy arms and mangled, stumbling feet. The door didn’t seem to be an option.

To his dismay, Theon noticed that there were no windows in his room either. Theon didn’t know how high up his room was, but a window would’ve been an escape nonetheless. 

Theon was trapped. He crumpled forward in his bed, burying his face against his knees. The unthinkable consumed him. Robb Stark was dead, butchered by Ramsay, and it was all his fault. Robb, with his bright blue eyes and wide, white smile. Robb, who used to wake him up on mornings he slept late with little kisses, all over. Theon would sometimes pretend to still be sleeping, just so Robb would go on longer. Robb, with his soft hair and his sweet lips and his warm skin. Robb who had loved him when no one else would, who had been more of a brother to him than his own. Robb, who was a loving big brother and a caring friend, a passionate leader, and the best person Theon knew. Robb, the only one who had tried to save him. Gone.

Theon cried and cried and cried until he felt exhausted and all dried up. He didn’t know how many hours he sat there in the bed, squeezing his eyes shut tight and hoping for the pain to numb, wishing for it all to end.

“Mr. Greyjoy?”

Theon flinched at the suddenness of the voice overhead, his eyes flashing open. Two nurses stood at his bedside, eyeing each other uncertainly before continuing.

“There are two visitors in the hall who want to see you,” one of the nurses— the man— said.

Theon felt his whole body go rigid. Had Ramsay sent someone after him? 

“We realize that it may not be best for you to see anyone right now,” the other nurse said, her voice gentle. “We absolutely can dismiss them if that’s what you’d prefer. I’m sure they’d understand.”

“Who are they?” Theon asked, his voice raspy and raw. 

“Jon Snow and Sansa Stark,” the first nurse said.

Theon’s breath caught.

“They say they grew up with you,” the nurse continued.

“Send them in,” Theon said, his heart hammering. 

“It may be best for you to rest more before seeing anyone,” the woman said. “We can always tell them to come back later.”

“Please, I want to see them now,” Theon said. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

The nurses exchanged a wary glance before turning back to him.

“Alright,” the first nurse said, rather grudgingly, it seemed. “You get ten minutes.”

When his former roommate and Robb's little sister spilled through the doors, Theon wanted to cower under his covers, ashamed for them to see him like this. But he sat up, stiff as he studied their faces, looking for any signs of relief or despair. He hadn’t seen either of them in years. Sansa’s copper hair was drawn up in a messy bun, and her eyes were bloodshot. Jon walked behind her, his face stony. Soft purple bags rimmed the skin beneath his eyes. They both looked nervous to approach him, and he watched them try to suppress the shock on their faces at they took in the sight of him. Theon was used to making people feel uneasy by now.

“Robb?” he asked as they drew up to his bedside. “Is he alright?”

“Alright?” Jon echoed, his dark eyebrows knitting together. “He was just stabbed three times! No, he’s not _alright!_ ”

Theon’s felt his whole body go numb. He couldn’t breathe.

Sansa shot Jon a sharp glance before turning to Theon.

“No, Robb may not be exactly “alright,” right now, but he will be,” she said gently. “The blood transfusion and surgery went well. The doctors say he’ll make a full recovery.”

Theon could hardly believe his ears. For one mad moment, he dared to hope.

“You’re- you’re lying to me,” he stammered.

“Theon, I’m not lying to you,” Sansa said. “Robb is going to be just fine. Do you really think that Jon and I could come in here and tell you Robb was alive if he wasn’t? No. If anything happened to Robb, we’d both be a mess. We’d be falling apart.”

Theon realized that she was telling the truth. She didn’t play cruel games like Ramsay did. Sansa and Jon loved Robb dearly— they wouldn’t be alright if he wasn’t. He looked to Jon for confirmation, too shocked to cower from the accusation in his eyes.

“She’s right,” Jon said. “Robb’s going to pull through. He got help in time.”

Theon burst into tears, relief and shock and shame all washing over him. Neither Jon nor Sansa spoke to him, instead just letting him cry, but when he collected himself enough to look back up at them, he saw that there were tears in Sansa’s eyes too.

“Have you seen him?” Theon asked.

“Yeah, he’s just sleeping now,” Jon said. “He’ll be out for a while.”

“Mother and father are with him,” Sansa said, “and Arya and Bran and Rickon too.”

“Ramsay,” Theon said, the name coming reluctantly to his tongue. He found it hard to meet Sansa and Jon’s eyes, afraid of the revulsion in them, afraid of their accusation. “Do you know where he is?”

“They detained him,” Jon said. “Luckily, they got the whole thing on security footage, and there were already other charges against him.”

It seemed to good to be true, but why would Jon lie to him?”

“You mean…” Theon said slowly, “he didn’t get away?”

Jon shook his head.

“Ramsay’s not going anywhere for awhile," he said. "He won’t get away with this one.”

Theon rested his head against the headboard, trying to take it all in. His limbs felt weak, and his head swam.

“Theon, you saved Robb’s life today,” Sansa said.

“He wouldn’t have needed saving if not for me,” said Theon.

Sansa’s eyes lowered.

“Robb’s hurt, and it’s all my fault,” Theon continued, voice thickening.

“Yeah,” Jon snapped. “It is.”

Theon recoiled from the harshness of his voice.

“Jon!” Sansa cried, but he ignored her.

“You broke his heart. He’s been tormented since you left him— for _years_ ,” Jon continued. “Would it have killed you to call him?”

_It might’ve_ , Theon thought, but he couldn’t muster the courage to tell Jon off. A pity, Theon thought— it had been one of his specialties, long before.

“He almost _died_ today.” A vein pulsed in Jon’s forehead, and the skin curled above his lip. “For the likes of you.”

“I know,” Theon said, more tears rushing to his eyes. “I know, and I’m sorry.”

“ _Jon_!” Sansa said, more firmly this time. “Why did you even come in here, if all you’re going to do is antagonize him?”

“Because I care about Robb, and he would want me to be here,” Jon said. His voice had become calmer, but his jaw still clenched tightly.

Jon scared him, but Theon couldn’t blame him for his anger. He had been awful to Robb, and Robb had only ever been good to him. Robb had almost died for him. Guilt cut through him, sharp as Ramsay’s flaying knife.

“The past is the past,” Sansa said. “You saved Robb today, Theon. You did. Thank you.”

Theon shrunk back from the hand that reached out to him. Sansa lowered it slowly to her lap.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

No one spoke for several minutes. Theon studied the pattern of his bedsheets, trying not to feel Jon and Sansa’s eyes on him as he tried to process everything. Robb was alive. Ramsay had been taken. He was sitting in a hospital room with Jon Snow and Sansa Stark, intubated, exhausted, and somehow stubbornly alive.

Theon didn’t know what any of this meant for him. Where would he go? He had no home, no family. How could he ever be safe? Who would want him?

Ramsay had always wanted him. The thought crept through him, sour and sickening. Theon tried to push it away. He didn’t want to go back to Ramsay. He knew that, and he couldn’t let himself think it. There was only one thing he really wanted.

“I want to see Robb,” he said.

Sansa and Jon met eyes, but Theon couldn’t tell what they were thinking.

“But he probably won’t want to see me,” he said.

“Of course he will,” said Jon. “You could’ve personally bludgeoned him half to death with a baseball bat, could’ve broken every bone in his body, and he’d _still_ want to see you.” There was something besides annoyance in his voice this time. Something that sounded a bit like admiration, or awe.

“He’s still resting, so we’ll have to see when he’s ready for visitors," said Sansa, "but I’m sure he’ll want to see you, too."

Just then, the two nurses burst through the doors, beckoning to Jon and Sansa. Theon felt his stomach sink.

“Don’t leave me,” he said quickly. “Please, don’t leave me with them.”

“It’s going to be alright,” Sansa said. “They’re not going to hurt you. We’ll be back soon, I promise.”

Theon hugged his legs, burrowing his face against his knees after he watched Sansa and Jon disappear through the swinging doors. Theon knew how promises went. He’d broken many himself.


End file.
